Selling myself and my experiences, one blog at a time

Maybe not as much as I like to suck on a nice, hard dick, but I do love women and there’s something inherently sweet about my mouth on a beautiful woman’s lovely bits. I especially love it when a woman has been waxed and it’s not her first time under the esthetician’s expertise. That soft, smooth curvy area where her upper thigh meets her full labia is incredibly arousing to me. Some women have a strong scent there and others it is very mild. Brianne’s secret spot was lightly scented like the rest of her body with a soft flowery smell that reminded me I was in Hawaii. Not quite plumeria; maybe with a touch of orange blossom and rose.

Brianne left that first day and I am vaguely proud to say I made her squeal. Perhaps she is not as experienced with women as I am, maybe she is. I don’t know. What I do know is that she left with her essence on my face and a smile on hers and I knew that I would see her again very soon.

My first night I walked from the palatial home where I rented a suite to the beach, less than a block away. The sand was still warm even though the sun had disappeared into the vast, endless Pacific Ocean. I could still detect the scent of Brianne on my face; her perfume on my chest.

I walked thinking about how fortunate I was in all ways. Suddenly burdened with money and an exotic sex toy! I laughed out loud. Then I heard the voice behind me.

“What’s so funny?”

It was a deep voice, the timber reverberating in my bones. It had a faint accent of…South Africa? No, Australia. I smiled to myself before I turned around.

“My extraordinary good luck,” I said.

Jarrad was well over 6 feet tall, so I was able to look up into his eyes. They were so dark they must have been black. His head was shaved but he had just the right sprinkling of chest hair between his nipples. His torso was quite firm with well-defined muscles. He stood before me in below-the-knee board shorts in a glowing green color that one could see from miles away. I now laughed at his clothing. He didn’t seem impressed.

“Luck at what, gambling or something?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Handsome, but I’m really not in the mood.” It was true. He was highly arousing, but still, I was in Brianne-land and didn’t want to leave.

“Whatever.” He turned and walked away. I watched him go.

The next morning, I saw Jarrad at a near by restaurant. He sat alone sipping his coffee, reading something on his iPad. I picked up my own cup of Joe and walked up to his table.

“Good morning, Mr. Handsome.” That was lame, I thought.

“Good morning, stuck up bitch.” His reply. “I’m only joking, of course.”

“Of course.” I was annoyed. And getting turned on. He had incredible dimples, which I love on a guy (not a girl). His eyes were indeed black but his skin was only moderately tan. His teeth gleamed brightly in the morning sun. He was hot and I wanted to see his cock.

“Join me.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Find me. My name is Dallas Cunningham. I’m staying nearby. I’ll make it worth your while.” I turned and walked away. I could feel his eyes boring into me. And for the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t sure that I was going to get laid.

What I saw on her computer, well, I won’t go into any details. Let’s just say that I’ll never have to work another day in my life. I navigated my way through her notes and various accounts. I realized that my aunt, my friend, had only me in her life and it was her life’s work that blared obscenely in my face on her computer. There was one caveat; I had to finish writing a novel. Any novel.

I have stacks of journals and boxes of papers; legal pads and thousands of words on my Pages app. I’ve never, ever submitted anything for publishing, aware of the fact that my writing is mediocre at best. Emily’s single condition for me to have all her money was to finally finish a novel.

So I wrote.

I bought a plane ticket to Hawaii. Why Hawaii? Because the first thing that happened to me in Hawaii was a plumeria lei was placed around my neck. Plumeria is my favorite flower. Good memories come from Hawaii. It was there that I decided I would write my novel.

When I arrived early in June, it was steamy hot already. I dressed casually in a short dress, my long blonde hair piled on of my head. The gorgeous petite Hawaiian girl who placed the lei around my neck as she led me to my awaiting car made me even hotter. She was my personal concierge, there to make sure “all of your needs are taken care of.” Her words.

I smiled. She smiled. She looked at my mouth. I looked at her mouth. Her teeth were perfect and her lips were the color of a crimson sunset. Her eyes all syrupy with lashes a mascara company would kill for. Brianne was my concierge ? I liked this.

Since I was there to write, I had booked a large suite with a large west-facing window overlooking the ocean at a small privately owned home. The cost was ridiculous but I could afford it. I had Brianne and a personal assistant (what the hell was the difference?) at my disposal. I could have a massage anytime. The chef would prepare whatever I wanted. I was in heaven, but my eyes were all over Brianne.

Brianne. Just thinking her name makes me smile. Let me tell you about Brianne.

Brianne was half-japanese, half-brazilian and was born on the Island of Hawaii. She stood a full 5 feet tall and had a cute shoulder length choppy sort of hair cut that shone nearly blue it was so black. Her eyes were like pools of syrup that dripped with sex appeal. Her skin, a deep olive-tan was sprinkled lightly with freckles. She was absolutely stunning, this pixy of a delight. Her small chest was maximized by a push up bra, it’s lacy design barely visible below the neckline of her cobalt blue dress. Her little legs, so tanned and toned were actually quite ripped with muscle. I later learned that she was a rock climber, and she had to body to prove it.

Brianne led me into my suite and handed me her card. She reminded me that she was there for anything I needed. I sat on the bed. I gestured for her to come to me. She didn’t even blink; her stride was slow yet confident. She pulled her dress off over her head and brought her beautiful breasts to my face. She smelled very floral and clean and her underclothes were off her and she was on her back on my bed and I devoured her pussy with the intensity in which I eat a mango. All juicy goodness, this girl was sweet and perfect.

It was a sudden death; killed by a drunk driver while she was driving to a tutoring class which she volunteered to teach at a local University. Why in the world someone would be driving drunk at 11:52 in the morning is beyond me, but I had to face the fact that my favorite “aunt” was gone.

She wasn’t really my aunt. She was a women 6 years older than me whom I befriended at a yoga retreat many years before. She had no family, so she “adopted” me as her niece. I loved the arrangement, and I loved to share stories of my life with her.

She left no one behind. She was never married, had no kids of her own. Didn’t have any pets. Not even a cat. She loved to travel and felt that leaving a creature behind would be cruel. She had a wonderful light about her. Just being around her made me happy. I felt an emptiness in my life when I learned she was gone.

I was phoned by her attorney shortly after I had her remains cremated (something I promised her I would do in the unlikely event I was there for her death). He called me into his office.

“Emily left you everything,” he said matter-of-factly. He handed me a thick Manila envelope. He had me sign some papers. He went into some details which washed over me and flowed into oblivion. I just sat in his office on his comfy chair staring at the collection of documents in my hand. Eventually he stood, I stood and I left his office.

I sat in my car and opened the envelope. There was a password for her personal computer. There were account statements from her banks, some papers I had just signed agreeing to accept property. There was a small slip of paper folded into thirds. I opened it. The note was hand written by Emily. It said mSecure on it. Underneath were a series of letters and numbers. I put it back into the envelope.

The trip home was long and tiring. It was the last day of May but the weather betrayed the date. Dark storm clouds gathered overhead. Fat raindrops hit my windshield with purpose. I became entranced by the motion of the windshield wipers. It seemed a month had passed as I drove the 65 miles home.

Once in my cozy apartment, I sat on my plush blue couch and stared out the window. I held the envelope in my hand and wondered about life in general. God, its a short trip for some people. Emily was a saint to my devil. Why did she have to die?

I opened my computer and searched for mSecure. Turns out it is some kind of security system for Macs. Days later I arrived at Emily’s and opened her computer. I typed in her password and searched her applications for mSecure. I entered what I expected to be her password. Soon I was looking at my Aunt’s private life in digital form.

There was a folder marked “Dallas”. I opened it. My breath caught in my throat.

There are things which are fully out of one’s control. My lengthy absence being one of those things.

The best part is, I had such luscious experiences over the past months that I simply cannot wait to write about them. Is anyone out there still reading? If so, I hope my coming posts will wash away the hurt from my absence.

I managed to make myself so sore and tired from fucking that I think I might have worn my pretty little pink parts out.

I spent months trying on men for size. Some of them I could barely see or feel inside me. I wondered about that. Does a slut like me feel less tight to men as time goes on? I sit on my dark blue couch. I pull my favourite purple vibe from my stash of sex toys and I squeeze my pelvic muscles together. I insert the slim vibe, pushing and squeezing. It’s not going in all that easily…

I believe that men, particularly those older men whose hard-ons are not all that hard anymore might get just a little more limp as they pull their condoms on half-erect penises. If I squeeze my muscles tightly enough, they might just wimp out of their rain coats and fail to fuck me as I deserve. Those men, those older, over-weight, balding men who cannot get hard enough for me don’t make it to dinner….or dessert for that matter. They try, oh they do try. But they fail to fill me with the solid flesh my core desires.

There is a particular part of me that is exceptional to those men who can satisfy me.

After fucking, if I have an orgasm, I crave cooking.

I will let him sleep on my plush bed and I will go into the kitchen and spend his nap fixing an incredible meal for him. I have thought about this in the past and have come up with a couple of ideas why I crave cooking after sex.

For one, I am usually hungry. My appetite for food is limited during the early hours of any day and by the afternoon and evening, my stomach is painfully empty.

The second reason I cook for sex is that deep down I feel that if I keep a healthy fucker with a full belly, he can fulfil my future desires with energy to spare. These men who make me cum seem surprised the first time I allow them to slumber in my bed. They awake after half an hour or so to find my place filled with the enticing aroma of a freshly prepared meal. Home cooking can often seduce a man intimidated by my long, blonde hair or my unusual height.

I’ve been told more than once (particularly in the past couple of months of sex, sex and more sex) that I am intimidating. Is it my beauty? Perhaps. Perhaps it’s my confidence, but I doubt that. I cannot be too intimidating as my sore, wet pussy will attest. Thankfully for more than one man, I like to cook after sex. But I’m tired and sore now and might take a break from sex for a while. Until then, I will write about those who made it to dinner.

The days following Y’s departure from my life passed in a sticky blur.

Stinging from the hurt, I went out and did what I knew best: I fucked.

I picked up logger-types from the local pub. Sex in the front seat of a Ford F-150 was complicated. Fingers pulling at my shirt, my hands fumbling with belt buckles, I couldn’t seem to fill myself with enough cock so I went from guy to guy. I was angry at Y; I was hurt and wanting to prove to her, to myself that I didn’t need her. That any man in town would want me and that I could fuck anyone, at any time.

That is just what I did.

I might have even fucked some guys more than once. I made up for lost time while involved in that monogamous relationship. I fucked nearly 50 guys in the first three weeks after Y left me. Some of them were really great. Others just looked great. Some I didn’t even care to ask their names. I just wanted dick and I wanted a lot of it.

I would sit at the kitchen table and total our receipts then divide them so that we each paid half of our combined living expenses. It wasn’t a horrible task although many friends have since told me that with Y. I had more of a business arrangement than a relationship when our expenses were so diligently split.

The last time I wrote a check to Y., I sat at the table as usual, beer in front of me and piles of grocery and drug store receipts scattered about. I always used a calculator as my arithmetic skills were severely lacking. Y. would laugh at me saying my math skills were poor because I never used them.

On this day, Y. walked up behind me and with a whisper softness, breathed her sweet breath upon my neck and shoulders, delicately tracing her lips on my skin.

The sensation both excited and aroused me and I could see my nipples harden underneath my thin camisole. Goosebumps flushed my arms as the faint hairs stood on end. The familiar warm wetness flooded the crotch of my jeans.

I turned to see the beautiful creature eliciting such passion from my body.

“Now, you concentrate on those figures,” she said, teasing me with her fiery eyes.

“I can only concentrate on your figure, ” I breathed. She was, as usual, just stunning in a short blue dress and bare feet.

She laughed her high pitch squeal, throwing her head back and sashaying out of the dining room. I returned to the task at hand, smiling to myself about my good fortune.

Twenty minutes later I walked in to our bedroom. She was laying on the bed, face down and whispering into the phone. She turned with a quickness and hung up. There was guilt in her eyes. It was something I had not witnessed before, but I knew it the second I looked into those amber pools. I stood looking at her, papers falling from my fingers as tears filled her eyes. Something was wrong and I could feel it deep in my bones.

I watched in stunned silence as she took her suitcase and dumped four dresser drawers worth of clothing into it. I stood by as she grabbed her toiletries from the bathroom. She slipped on her blue ballet flats. I followed her to the door and watched her open it. She walked out the door, never turning back.